Who Dat?

Back in the 80s, long before the X-Games existed, Tom Haig traveled the world as an extreme athlete. He visited more than 50 countries as an international high diver, doing multiple somersault tricks from over 90 feet.

That life came crashing down one Sunday morning in 1996. While training on his mountain bike, he smashed into the grill of a truck and became paralyzed from the waist down. But less than a year later he completed a 100-mile ride on a hand-cycle and traveled by himself to Europe and the Middle East.

Since then he has continued to travel the world as a consultant, writer and video producer. He spent six months launching a Tibetan radio station in the Himalayas and shot documentary shorts on disability in Bangladesh, France, Albania, Ghana and most recently Nepal.

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

Captain Crip Extra: Fair Warning to Dog Murderers

A harrowing event at work unfolded when I was rolling up the ramps to the top floor of the SIRC. A 35 lb. short-haired yellow mutt had wandered onto the roof and two complete meatbrains were chasing it away with sticks. The dog found the ramp down and was on its' way towards me when one of the dufi hurled a shovel at it from above trying to kill it. The pooch freaks out, and thinking the assault is coming from below, reverses course and unwisely bolted back towards the roof.

I immediately go ape shit on these assholes, grabbing one of them and screaming that if he ever assaults a dog again, I'm going to throw him off the roof. He laughs at me and tells me the dog is a killer who has bitten many people. I look over at the freaked out pooch, who is wearing a collar, and scream at the dotard, “That’s somebody's pet you jackass!”

Meanwhile the pooch, who has been badly injured in what appears to be an attack from another dog, is running for its life and panting so hard, I thought it was going to have a heart attack. I went to my work room; the pooch runs right in behind me and looks at me as if to say, “Can you believe this shit?”

I reach under his chin and give him a few scratches and he looks back at me saying, “Dude, get me the hell out of here.”

I look back at the brain-dead pair and said, “Sure thing - killer dog! Bites people. You fucking idiots!”

One of my co-workers, who I play guitar with, comes on the scene and I ask him if he can find me a rope. Meanwhile the dog is licking me and just dying to have me get him passed the two crap-for-soul idiots. The guitar player comes back with some electrical cord which I tie to his collar before walking the dog out of the madness. The dog heels perfectly as I navigate the four 100-ft long ramps to the ground floor. I lead him out the door and let him loose, but he looks back at me, still wildly panting and says, “Man, I’m hurtin’ here. Can you spill me some water?”

So I go to the cafeteria where I meet my P.A. Rownika who is also a dog lover. She gets a bowl, we fill it up with water and she (knowing the cooks won’t be happy if we let the dog drink out of a human bowl) pours water into her cupped hands for the pooch who laps it up like a four-year-old going after an ice cream cone.

We walk the pooch out of the compound, untie the leash and let it on it’s way. Rownika goes to a local bodega and buys him some biscuits, but he just wants to boogie on home. Luckily the neighborhood dogs know Rownika does this from time to time, so they cuddled up to her and munched the package.

But here’s fair warning to ANYONE ON THIS PLANET. If you throw a shovel at a dog, I will throw it back at you. If I miss, I will pick it up and throw it again and again until I cause damage.